Monthly Archives: April 2010

I’m one of those people who likes controlled spontaneity. However, when it comes to my children, I like to have a concrete course of action regarding their rearing. This is why I called the GA Department of Education last year to find out what elementary school my eldest would be assigned to.

After tapping away at some keys, the man on the phone pulled up our information and said “Northwood Elementary”.

Perfect, I thought. I had looked up their scores, scoured their website and was confident that Nadjah would receive a quality education, even if it was from a public school. That is part of the American dream, isn’t it? Well today, my worst nightmare came true. I became a victim of Fulton county’s school redistricting.

Battling flu symptoms, head and body aches, I trooped down to Northwood to register Nadjah for her first year in kindergarten. A kind faced lady with white hair and a gaudy black and silver necklace took me through the registration process. I tried to seem cordial and professional, even though my nose was dripping and I had no tissue anywhere on my person. I thought about pulling out the baby’s size 4 diaper to clean my face, but I opted for the back of my hand instead. Real classy, I know.

Anyway, after completing the forms and scheduling my biggest baby’s Kindergarten assessment, I drove home, pleased that I had done something meaningful for the day. I thought about Northwood all the way home. The library was impressive and immaculate. When we entered the colorful facility, a staff member was reading to a group of second graders about Hitler and the history of Curious George. She used an LCD projector to demonstrate aspects of the book. When she was done, the children politely raised their hands to answer and ask questions. Everything was so orderly and well…perfect! She was going to love it there. My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the ring of my cell phone. An unknown number popped up on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Mrs Grant?”

“Yes?”

“You were just here to register your daughter for kindergarten?”

“Uh huh!” I was smiling.

“I’m sorry, but someone took a look at your address, and it seems you are supposed to be going to Mimosa, not Northwood.”

My smile immediately faded.

“I see…”

“If you could come down and get your paperwork we’d appreciate it.”

“Ok. I’ll be right there.”

By this time, I had already pulled into my driveway and had to turn back around. My first thought was that they didn’t want any Negros sullying their perfect grounds, so I called the DOE again to confirm that I was not supposed to be at that school. Turns out we had indeed been redistricted to go to Mimosa some time last year. It wasn’t racial after all. I strode into the building, collected my paperwork, and assured the very apologetic old ladies that it was all right.

“Thanks for being so understanding.”

What did they think I was going to do? Pull out my chicken head card and cuss them all out? It was ok. I would just re-register Nadjah at…Wait. Mimosa??

Uh. Mimosa.

Mimosa Elementary is the quintessential poster child for the movie “Lean on Me”. It’s a school that used to be pretty darn good until a group of undesirables moved into the neighborhood, took over the school and took test score waaaay down. Mimosa ranks 799th out of 1079 schools in Georgia. Northwood ranks 114th. I’m only mildly racist, but if I wanted my children educated in the barrio and/or the ghetto, I’d move down to South Central LA! Check out this link: http://www.schooldigger.com/go/GA/schoolrank.aspx?level=1&findschool=0228001025. It ranks all the schools in Georgia and gives their CRCT scores year over year. Does the State/County really think I have time to sit around to wait for Joe Clark to come in and turn this school around?!?!

At this point, I have 2 choices: Send my child to school where the state tells me to, or fork over a kidney to fund her education at a decent private school, since my Black behind does not pay enough in property taxes to allow her go to a quality public school like Northwood. School vouchers anyone?

Virtually every first time mom I know has the same complaint when it comes to their baby’s first word. From Accra to Amsterdam, the first word a baby invariably utters is “daddy” in some shape or form.

My Indian friend’s children said “baba” first.

My friend in Germany’s daughter broke her vocabulary cherry with “papa” just last month.

Here I sit in Atlanta, and my son of 10 months can say two words. “E’ (as in the letter ‘e’) and “Daaadeee”.

Why is this so disconcerting to a first time mother? Well, it’s very simple. You spend nine months battling morning sickness, constipation, diarrhea, consti-di, food cravings, food revulsion, stretch marks, sleepless nights, hair loss, weight gain and swollen feet for that little sucker to come out and show his/her appreciation for all that you suffered by uttering “Daddy” at the first chance they get? To add insult to injury, the baby addresses you as “Daddy” as well. How is that fair??

I’m here to tell you first time mom’s, it’s completely fair. In fact, it’s right…And it’s the way things were meant to be.

My dad likes to quote the Bible and remix the versus to suit his needs. In a recent conversation, he told me that “the foolishness of God confounds the wisdom of men.” (I looked it up, and it’s actually in the Bible. Go Dad.) God, creator of heaven and earth in all His foolishness knew precisely what He was doing when He commanded babies’ first word to summon/acknowledge their fathers. It’s taken me 4 pregnancies to figure it out, but here’s why:

You and your hubby/partner/shag buddy are asleep in bed. It’s been a long day for both of you. At 5 am, 2 hours before you’re even ready to crack your eyelids, your precious baby calls from his crib in the other room.

“Eee…Eeee..Daaaadeeee!!”

At this point, a novice mother would leap dutifully from her restful slumber to attend to the needs of her offspring. His father snores on.

Not the woman who has had 3 other children. She ignores the cry altogether.

The child raises his voice, more insistant this time.

“Daadeee!! Dadeeeeee!!!!”

“Baby’s calling you, ” says Master Mom.

“Mmmm…?” says Confused Dad sleepily.

“Baby’s calling you,” she repeats. ” I know he means “mommy”, but he said “daddy”… so get up and see what he wants.”

Realizing that this is not a battle he’s going to win at this hour, the previously proud papa pads into his son’s room to figure out how he can get the boy back to sleep. Pleased that his calls have summoned one adult (even if it’s not the one he intended) the baby squeals with delight and bounces up and down. He signals that he’s ready for milk and to start the day. His father sighs and takes his son downstairs. In the next room, the veteran mother closes her eyes tightly, burrows deeper into the covers and continues sleeping.

THAT is why a baby’s first word is “daddy”, “baba”, whatever. Because for the next 30+ years, the only name that is going to come out of your heathen child’s mouth is “Momma”. So take heart you new moms, use this God-given tool wisely and enjoy the respite while you can!

I spent Mother’s day 2009 much the same way I’ll probably spend this one: Pregnant, fat and exhausted. What I’m hoping, however, is that my children will spare me the antics of last year’s holiday for the 2010 version.

As I lay in my bed on May 10, 2009, weary from the grueling ritual that was taking care of two toddlers, I tiredly asked my children to just sit and play in my room while I laid down for a moment. Nadjah was 4 at the time. Aya was 2 and a half. I only had 2 weeks left to deliver what I assumed at the time was my last child.

“Mommeee, can we watch TeeeVeee?” Nadjah asked in her shrill, sing-song voice.

“No.”

“Can we build a castle?” she asked again.

“No.” I was bone tired and irritated. “Just get some toys and play on the floor.”

“Okay!”

The sound of my two children’s chatter filled the room, and I sunk my head deeper into my pillow ignoring the roundhouse kicks that my son was delivering to my abdomen. Nadjah and Aya cackled and guffawed, delighting one another with the playful gibberish only understandable to two sisters so close in age. 10 minutes into my slumber, I felt a gust of wind come through the window and hit my back.

“It’s chilly and windy all of a sudden,” I thought.

Then I heard thumping against aluminum. Next, a tiny voice said “My turn!!!”

My turn? My turn for what?

I rolled my pregnant, obese body over and to my surprise and horror, my children had pushed the sliding glass window up, removed the screen and were running full kilter across the top of my carport. A 15 foot drop onto unforgiving asphalt awaited them below if they slipped. Nadjah was closest to the window, and Aya was gingerly walking towards the edge, giggling the whole way. In the calmest voice I could muster, I commanded them back into the house.

“Git yer Black butts back in here NOW!!!!”

Stunned, Aya stopped in her tracks. Nadjah climbed back in and her sister followed. I surveyed the room around me. My screen lay on the floor, two screws lifelessly on either side. A collection of leaves and pine cones was on the floor. My children stood looking sheepishly at me.

“What the—??! How the—?!?! You—?!?!?!”

My inability to form complete sentences was disconcerting to my youngest and she began to cry. I reached for a wooden spoon and prepared to deliver the World’s Greatest Butt Whoopin’, but I thought the better of it. I was too angry and I might hurt them too much. Visions of a home visit from child services darted through my head. I called my husband who was sitting in an elder’s meeting at church.

“Marshall. You get home right now and you whoop these kids right now, you hear me?!”

“Why? What’s wrong?” he was laughing.

I quickly gave him the short version.

“I’ll be home in 15 minutes.”

When my husband walked in the door, I had already put both kids in bed where they would be safe from my wrath. He called them out of bed, explained why what they did was wrong (“and dangerous!” I screeched) and smacked them both on their bottoms. Thoroughly chastised, they went sobbing back to bed.

I’m overcome even as I sit here writing about that ridiculous day. Lets hope Mother’s Day 2010 is a little less eventful. I’ll take the pancakes and flowers in bed any day over my kids trying to play me like a punk.

It’s been a while since I’ve had to bitch about my douche-bag-baby-daddy, Courtney the Platypus; but in true form, he’s back after 3-4 weeks, like a bad case of herpes.

First, let me explain why he is now being referred to as a platypus. My brother, in his infinite wisdom, pointed out that this “man” (and I use the term very, very loosely), has very few redeeming qualities.

“When God created the platypus, it was like it was a big joke to Him,” said my younger sibling. “It was like ‘Hey, I got some left over duck, squirrel, beaver, otter, mammal AND reptilian parts, let me see what happens when I throw them all together’. And voila! We have a platypus. That’s what it was like on the day Courtney was born.”

So what did he do this week? Sit back and grab a Coors Light. This is mildly amusing and greatly annoying.

As I’ve said before, Douche Bag dragged me to court early this spring to fight for his visitation “rights”. After very politely asking him what 2 weeks in the summer he would like to exercise said rights, he has come up with all manner of excuses as to why he cannot keep the child he is 50% genetically responsible for creating for 2 consecutive weeks per the court action he initiated. These have ranged from a planned trip to visit his infant sister’s grave in “Buffalop” during the summer, to alleging that I said it was ok for him to split up the summer, to plans to attend a job training program that’s going to make it ‘difficult’ for him to keep her for 2 weeks in a row. That was a month ago. As of yesterday, this tr3 (ask your local Ghanaian what ‘tr3′ means) tried to use my daughter’s plans to go to summer camp to circumvent his 2 week responsibilities!

A few hours after she was dropped off at school, I get a call from his number. I, of course, ignore it. I don’t speak retarded wildlife. I text him back to ask him what’s wrong.

Nothing! I just want to see what Na’s summer plans are, if she’s going to camp and how much it costs.

-It’s 2 weeks of day camp, $350.

Do you want me to pay for half of it?

-That’s fine.

Can you call me back? I’m driving to Bama right now and don’t want to text and drive.

-Text me when you’re not driving.

We can’t talk?

(Silence)

Ok. What are the dates?

-I told you over a month ago that I need you to confirm the 2 weeks you are keeping her so I can pick the dates.

Look!!! That’s why I’m texting u! Trying to work around ur schedule, but if u gonna be mean about it!!!

*Uh?!!* Did this niggro really just raise his voice at me over e-comm?? I take 30 minutes to regroup and say:

-Fine. She’s not going to camp.

Malaka! I just trying to meet u halfway. We don’t have to be friends. But let’s try to get along for Nadjah.

-No one is trying to be your friend. All I want you to do is follow the rules you put in place.

Ok!

And that was the end of it. I still don’t know if “ok!” means ‘Yes I will finally man up and stop being a little punk whore and keep her for 2 consecutive weeks’ or ‘I be back with more bull to see if I can pull the wool over what I assume are your stupid African eyes’. Ans how is he meeting ME halfway when I clearly need nothing from him? He can meet me half way at a little town called Piss Off is what he can do.

When will this insanity end?!?!? I hope he wrecks and dies on his way back from Alabama.

My little brother Sami recently went to Chicago for a bachelor party/dude’s night out. Being a first time tourist in the city, he said he had his head tilted backward looking up at the immense downtown from below.

“We ate a lot,” he said. “It was a good time.”

He told me about the club district that he and his friends went to. It was “crazy”, he emphasized.

“But you were there for a bachelor party?” I asked. “Who was getting married?”

“No one you know,” he replied evasively.

“And you went to the club district. What was that like? Was it like ours in Atlanta?”

“Look, Malaka. There are certain things about my weekend that I just can’t tell you.”

He implied that because I was a Christian woman with a family, I would neither understand nor approve and he just would NOT discuss that aspect of his weekend with me.

Oh really, Sami? Is that how it’s gonna go down? Well you don’t have to tell me anything, because I already know!

******** Haze and fade to black please ********

Sami is that Black dude that only hangs out with white guys. He is the anchor that gives a group of White boys some street cred. As such, when he and his buds hit the town, he is afforded the honor of choosing the pick of the litter when it comes to women. That weekend in the club district of Chicago, Sami encountered a woman that he would not soon forget.

As Sami and The Revolution (his band of male misfits) entered a seedy club known as Tantra, he encountered what would be his escort for the evening. A pack of ovulating women walked up to him, but there was one who stood out. She was a toothless Inuit prostitute with a peg leg who had moved from Canada to turn tricks in the Windy City. American dollars are worth far more than Canadian, you see?

Sami was immediately captivated. He shooed the other ‘ladies’ away and turned his attentions exclusively to the Inuit.

“What’s you’re name?” he asked suavely.

She violently grabbed the drink that was in his hand and began to gurgle.

“Gurrrrrggglll!!!”

Sami stared blankly at her.

“But you can call me ‘Digit’,” she added.

“Oh. Do they call you Digit because you have a wooden leg?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s because I have a third nipple.”

She lifted her shirt to reveal a cherry color nipple situated just above her belly button. It was pierced with a skull and cross bow and had the word vortex tattooed around it’s circumference.

“Come with me,” she commanded. “I shall show you wonders that you have never seen.”

The Revolution had been intently watching this exchange and wondered what would happen next. Big Blonde Dan sent two of the lesser band members to spy on Capn’ Black’n (as Sami was known by his crew) and come back with a full report. Digit led the Cap’n to a red room, covered with velvet drapes and paisley carpeting. In the corner was a fugly goat with matted goat hair. As soon as Sami stepped in, the goat spoke.

“Dude, Didgit. Not again!” he bleated balefully.

“Yes again!” she snapped back.

The goat began to buck his head and try to escape from his tethers.

“Excuse me one moment.”

“No, no. Take your time,” said Sami.

Digit grabbed the goat by his horns and took him behind a heavy curtain. As she let out a stream of curses, Sami could see their shadows wrestling violently on the ground.

“Uhhh…look. I don’t want any trouble,” he said nervously, while still trying to maintain his cool.

“It’s no…trouble…at all!!!” Digit screeched. The goat continued to bleat sinisterly, defiant in Digit’s attempts to usurp his will. Finally, he succumbed.

“Alright!” he said. “You win.”

When Digit and the goat emerged, she was clad in a sequined dress, reminiscent of old Broadway. The goat was wearing a feathered boa and had a cane in his mouth. The Inuit instructed my brother to sit in a leather armchair, using her most seductive voice. Suddenly, there was music filtering into the room through hidden speakers in the room’s walls. Digit and the goat broke into a lively rendition of Gene Kelly’s Gotta Dance score from Singin’ in the Rain. They danced gaily around each other, the weary goat struggling to keep time.

At the end of the performance, Sami sat in silence, his mouth agape. Digit’s heavy breath filled the thick air of the room, sweat pouring from her brow. The goat looked away in shame. As if woken from a trance, Sami began to clap cautiously at first, and then with much enthusiasm. The two cohorts from The Revolution who had watched the performance in horror from the key hole outside clapped wildly as well.

“What do I owe you for this evening’s…pleasure,” my little brother asked.

“No money,” said Digit. “You must only promise me that you will never forget what you have seen here and tell others. The goat and I came to America to seek fame.”

Sami left the velvet room immediately, promising the girl with 3 nipples and a wooden leg that he surely would not forget all that he had seen.

*********Haze and fade to the present*********

It’s ok, Sami. I understand why you didn’t tell me. It’s a story that’s hard to believe! I mean, who ever heard of a toothless Inuit living in Chicago anyway?

South Africa means different things to many people depending on what era they were born in. For some, it’s the Rainbow Nation. For others, it’s the newest destination for the World Cup. As a more macabre individual, “South Africa” conjures up images of apartheid, rape, murder and injustice for me. If anyone is unfamiliar with this country’s history, let me give you a brief synopsis of how the country was formed:

Let’s say you’re at home in your very cushy house that your family has lived in for hundreds of years. A bedraggled homeless guy stops by and asks for a glass of water. Being a good Samaritan, you offer him not only water, but food as well. The homeless guy leaves, and comes back every few months to abuse your hospitality, demanding more food, water and clothing. YOUR clothing. One day, when your back is turned, he asks you to pray with him. He wants to bring you the “good news”. When you open your eyes, he’s got your ancestral home and you’re the homeless guy now…only you’ve got a Bible to console you. That’s how the Dutch Boers colonized the nation. They were a bad guest that just never left.

I’ve never had the fortune of traveling to South Africa, but my husband did 2 years before we got married. In the 2 weeks that he was there for a mission trip, he fell in love with this country, townships, Afrikaans, social injustices and all. He loved the people. He loved the land. He could completely understand why those Europeans never left 300+ years ago.

A mutual friend of ours runs a school in one of the townships.She’s back in Atlanta this week to visit her family. She and Marshall chatted briefly after church this past Sunday.

“Why don’t you just pack up the family and move down there?” she asked him.

“Believe me, Nicole…I would,” he replied wistfully.

Later on that night, he told me about Nicole’s challenge to move. As we lay in bed twirling each others chest hairs, I asked him why not? Why not pack up and move to South Africa?

“Are you serious?” he asked. “What about Ghana?”

“Ghana will always be there,” I said. “Besides, my dad can come and visit us anywhere on the continent. He doesn’t need a visa like your silly American government refuses him.”

My husband’s breath quickened. He began to recount all the things he had seen and done in the country seven years ago. As he talked about the crags and panoramic mountain scenes, his voice got an octave deeper and he had a far away, misty look in his eye. It was as though he was talking about some hot ex-girlfriend that time and circumstance had separated him from much too soon. His amour for this country has me willing to give her another look. Perhaps she is not the evil whore I’ve presumed her to be.

It’s been refreshing to see him so excited about something these last few days. Who knows? If the winds blow right and with good fortune, I may be blogging from our new home in Port Elizabeth in 2011.

It was the day he had been waiting for since they broke up in 2005. Adj was finally getting married, and he was free to release all the woe and regret that had been building up and twisting in his heart for these last few years. Some people had never forgiven him for dumping her; namely his mother and Adj’s elder sister, Malaka. Adj was a young woman full of promise and on a trajectory for an amazing career in physics. His mother hoped to show her off as a prize catch. Malaka wanted Chris and his trollish ways incorporated into their already insane family. The two women were devastated by the news of the break up, and time had yet to heal their wounds.

But today, when Adj celebrated her nuptials and wed another man, Chris would be there to lend his support and congratulations. It was the least he could do. Chris and Adj had maintained a friendship over the years, so his presence at her wedding would not be odd at all. He didn’t know much about the groom. Was it a coincidence that his name was ‘Chris’ as well? Who knew. Adj went through Chrises like syphilis went through a Chinese whore house. This Chris was the fourth she’d dated since him.

One final look in the mirror to pat down his afro and adjust his cravat and he was ready.

“It’s show time,” he said, breathing deeply. Today, he would show everyone that had doubted his decision to break up with her that it was best for all involved. She was happy and he was happy for her.

The wedding was nice…typical. Adj and her new husband were agnostics, so their vows were pretty general. They had written them themselves and vowed to stay together so long as the one didn’t piss the other off too badly. They released crows when they walked out of the church. One of them took a squishy dump on Chris’ rented tux. No matter. It was rented after all. The reception was even more entertaining. As promised, Adj’s brother sang “She’s your Queen to be” as Adj walked into the reception hall. 3 very black, burly Ghanaian boys threw cassava shavings and hibiscus petals at her feet as she made her way to the high table. After all the guests had eaten and drank to their fill, the MC opened the mic for well wishers. Chris, who had been sipping on vodka tonics all night seized the chance to wish his could-have been bride all the happiness in the world. He staggered onto the dance floor and grabbed the cordless mic.

“You know folks, this is a very happy occasion here tonight, ” he slurred. “I used to date Adj too, like 6 or 7 other men in here did. When we would do it, I used to hit it from the back because that was the only way I could get to her ‘love spot’. My belly is quite rotund, you see?”

He shook his feed sack for dramatic effect. The MC moved closer to try and take the mic from him.

“No, no man!” Chris yelled. “I got this under….control. Anyway, the first time me and Adj did it, I thought my penis was broken. I called the nurse help line because her vaginal walls were so tight.”

The reception guests gasped. Some of them shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Oddly encouraged by this response, Chris continued.

“Oh yeah! It was something else. I recall some of our more amusing times…getting a puppy together (and me drowning that puppy), making her push the car down the road when it ran out of gas. She was such a good African girl. She never complained about the manual labor I expected of her…including shaving my back and ass crack. She’s a good woman, that one.”

He raised his fist and shook at Adj’s new groom, Chris.

“You…you take good care of her, hear?”

Suddenly, as if on cue, Ying Yang Twins’ Get Low blared over the speakers at the fin of his fine speech, and Chris stepped off the dance floor like a jolly, drunken gnome. He threw up an obscure gang sign.

‘Aaahhh skeet skeet skeet!’

Seconds later he passed out face first into a bowl of groudnut soup; falling into sleepy oblivion and adding more plumage to his already colorful cap of shame.